Chapter 3
From the tinted windows of the Aoiya, the sky was a swirl of gray and purple. There were threatening signs of rain pour overhead, and the air held the familiar morning smell of dewy grasses and damp leaves. A noble oak grandfather clock chimed six times. Its modern clang of western bells clashed with the traditional paintings and sliding doors of the Aoiya. Misao waited nervously in the hallway. The train to Tokyo would leave in an hour, and Misao wanted to make sure that she would have time to speak to Aoshi-sama and catch her train in time, as well. She slid slowly against the wall; the cold feel of it rubbing against her back as she nervously coiled a stray strand of hair around with her finger. The soft sliding of a door alerted Misao of her okashira's emergence. She turned expectantly, all smiles until she took one look at him. He looked…so rough. For the lack of a better word, Misao thought, as she blushed crimson and took in his appearance swiftly: tousled, wet, jagged hair, loose shirt, bare feet… Misao wanted to run away—she couldn't talk to him with a straight face, with him looking so…desirable. Misao steeled her resolve; however, and subdued her flurry of emotions in a matter of seconds, thus managing to save her from an embarrassing situation before Aoshi was even aware that it had taken place.
"Ohayo, Aoshi-sama!"
"…Ohayo, Misao."
Misao bit her lip, took a set of files from inside her cloak, and handed it over to him. She didn't want her farewell to end so… tonelessly. But as long as she had a chance to say goodbye, she wouldn't complain, "Here, these are all the recent cases Jiya and I had considered worthwhile…" and she fumbled with her cloak once more to get a smaller folder of papers, nearly knocking the previous set of papers out of Aoshi's hands as she clumsily handed them over, "and these are the men whom are connected to these cases in relevant ways, and of whom we still have data on." Aoshi took one look at the papers, thrust them inside his shirt and gave her a piercing look. Under his unrelenting gaze, Misao felt like she was going to squirm to death—why did she feel so vulnerable near him, and yet so compellingly absorbed at the same time? What was he looking for? All she had offered was purely business.
Aoshi had woken up feeling restless, and had decided to do some early morning training to rid his mind of troubling thoughts—thoughts that focused on a certain young woman who was leaving that very morning. He knew that Misao's trip to Tokyo would most probably be as safe and harmless as she herself professed it to be, since she would be under the careful watch of Himura. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel some unease with letting Misao go alone. Why was it that he still couldn't let Misao go—that he still considered her his precious child, even at her current age of seventeen?
She was watching him guardedly. Probably waiting for him to say something, some departing words. Didn't she know already that he wasn't one for flowery prose? He would wait for her to gather her wits and admire the view in the meanwhile. Misao was wearing a traditional kimono and hakama for easy travel that had fine purple blossoms stitched onto the midnight fabric. Her hair, probably done for ease and practical purposes, was tied loosely into a low ponytail, leaving some unruly locks to frame her slender face. He noted that she held herself as a woman: she had her chin held up slightly and one arm secured delicately by the elbow by her other hand. He knew that he didn't think of her as a child—she had been haunting his sleep too long for him to indulge himself in that particular lie any longer. Where was his worry coming from, then? She wished him good morning, and handed him some papers in her nervous, endearing way. He took a quick glance at the papers and noticed the way she had carefully organized the papers and how she had written with clear penmanship. Her observations were very shrewd, and the solutions she had suggested were ingenious. I should definitely stop underestimating her, he contemplated thoughtfully as he tucked the papers into his shirt, I have taken too long to accept her for what she is. He saw her fidget under his scrutiny, observing her amusedly as she tried to take control of her situation, and watching her grow rosier by the minute. But it's not too late to start now.
Misao surprised him and herself when she thrust her hand out to him. They both were familiar with the western gesture by shadowing if not by experience—what was surprising was that this entirely business-like gesture came from Misao. Aoshi seemed to be dumbstruck for the first time in years. Misao watched him apprehensively and almost sighed with relief when he tentatively took her hand.
"A-Aoshi-sama, this is my farewell." Her voice rang out wavering yet clear. Mou, how utterly stupid I sound! Misao thought, frustrated at herself for a moment. Then she put her other hand on top of his and covered it the best she could, gazed up into his eyes with an elfin smile, and gently shook his hand.
For once, it seemed like he too was going to smile—his eyes were glimmering brightly, with no hard look to ward her off. Indeed, Misao could see that he was at least humored, but smile he would not—he was quite a stubborn man. Well, I've always enjoyed a challenge, Misao reasoned genially as she removed her hand from his, letting him hold her other in silence, "I leave the Aoiya in good hands."